The Runaway
by RhinestoneEmpire
Summary: After far too long ignoring things that have happened between him and Murdoc, 2D decides that it's high time he ran away. But sometimes, it just isn't that easy to pretend you can't feel... Written for Rainbow King, because Rainbow King is awesome and I'm the best person ever


**The Runaway**

2D sometimes wondered what his life would be like without Gorillaz.

Surely, it'd be boring. He knew that much for certain – working in the piano shop had never been thrilling. The only part that had ever really been extraordinary was when he'd done demonstrations for the kids. The look on their faces was _always_ worth the hours he spent fixing the till.

He wondered if his flat would still be covered in those stupid newspaper clippings. It was a hobby that'd died with his left eyeball; collecting articles about the small things in life, like who'd won the City Hall's 'Biggest Cabbage' competition. It was a bit stupid now he thought about it, but it'd been nice to think that – even though you were small – someone out there cared enough to document your triumph. His favourite had been about a young girl named 'Stacy' who'd given her collection of model aeroplanes to a local specialist school. Her reasoning had been so beautifully simple; they needed toys for their students, and she didn't like Spitfires anymore.

Sometimes, 2D wished life was that straightforward. Ever since losing his eyeballs, his life had been so hectic, so goddamn _confusing_, that it was hard to know anything anymore. There were no 'little things' now – everything was a drama, had a purpose, had a skill or place. He hated it.

It all came down to Murdoc, of course. The problems always did.

That man was a life-wrecker. Armed with nothing more than blinding stupidity and a stolen car, he'd managed to ruin everything. Breaking glass, fracturing eyeballs, and dooming Stuart Pot to become Two Dents forever more, just because he wanted to nick a keyboard. Hate wasn't a big enough word to encompass what 2D felt towards him. Or maybe, it was just the wrong word altogether.

No matter, how he tried to hide it, he still admired Murdoc. He liked the bassist; for every reason he _shouldn't_, there was a far away, hazy reason he _should_, looming over the plains of his conscious like a choking fog. There was nothing he could do to stop it, and that's what hurt him the most.

2D found himself touching his arm. His fingers skittered dangerously over one of his latest bruises, recalling the smack of metal that had caused it. He'd be surprised if the cooker got away without a dent.

A dent. How fitting, that he left one behind – a mark on this house, a permanent scar to linger under boiling water. He imagined that Murdoc would see it, and every time remember that it was _his _fault 2D had left. It made D strangely, twisted happy.

The window wasn't hard to open – the lead paint holding it shut cracked after only the first twist of the fork. 2D grabbed his bag – filled with everything he could manage to fit in it – and pulled off his t-shirt. The cold air trickled over his skin, even as he pulled on a new, fresher set of clothing. He'd have to get used to it, he supposed, at least until he found a new home.

As he climbed out of the window, he thought of Noodle and Russell. He'd miss them like hell – and he was sure they'd miss him, too. But they'd also understand. How couldn't they? They'd seen the way 2D was living; they'd seen the horror, the pain of every moment spent in Murdoc's company. They would understand. Right?

He put it out of his mind. He couldn't be worrying about that now – he needed to escape Wobble Street as soon as possible.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Murdoc woke up with the ominous feeling that something was wrong.

He took a deep breath, rubbing drowsiness out of his eyes. Why the hell was his chest so heavy? He understood the nausea – he'd drunk a _lot_ the night before – but why the _doubt_, clinging to his ribs and making him ache? He scoffed, which turned into a three-minute cough, hacking at his sore bones. As soon as he was done, he shuffled out of bed, lethargic, and dragged himself down stairs, hoping that the feeling _would go away_.

It followed him downstairs.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

2D stared out at the train tracks, clutching himself tightly. The air was thick with frost, his breath like steam from the kettle of his lungs. He wished that the train would hurry up, closing his eyes really tightly and balling up his hands in a vain attempt to mimic prayer, but when he looked at the clock, it felt like someone had kicked him. 2 hours, he had to wait, and there was bugger all else to do but stare at the tracks. The station was deserted; he'd picked it because it would be the last place Mudds would look for him.

_Murdoc_ thought he was stupid. _Murdoc_ would search for him in the bigger stations first, because they ran direct lines to everywhere – obviously, 2D was far too _stupid_ to know about _catching _fucking _connections_, right? God, every time he thought about Murdoc, his blood began to boil with discontent. That man didn't care about him. He never _had_.

Suddenly, 2D recalled the night. His hand shot up to the bruises on his arms, scrabbling at the cloth, as he tried hard to forget what had happened. He needed to forget; if he could _forget_, he could move on.

Desperately, he reached into his pocket, searching for something to distract himself. His mobile was out of the question, obviously – he'd exchanged it for the taxi ride here – and there didn't seem to be anything else in there. However, just as he was about to give up, he felt the frigid touch of a coin. He pulled it out and stared at it, trying to decipher what it was. His shaking fingers passed over it, feeling the bite of cold, and finally he remembered.

America. When he'd been writing _The Fall_, in secret, on their little band 'road trip'. In reality, the whole trip'd just been an excuse for Murdoc to go to Vegas, but 2D could remember that little village in Arizona like it was _yesterday_.

There had been a fair in town – the rides were all old and breaking and they'd had no money on them, but Noodle had wanted to go on the carousel so bad that Murdoc eventually gave all of his whiskey stash to the vendor in exchange for a day's free rides. 2D had kept his token, not wanting to go on a ride that was essentially held together with _magic_, but watching Noodle and Russell pretending to be cowboys was enough to calm him.

Murdoc hadn't gone on the ride, either.

2D shook his head, rubbing the memory out of his eyes. The image of Murdoc's disgruntled grin lingered on his eyelids like a plague.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Shaking with rage and fear, Murdoc slumped onto the chair, cursing every inch of himself. Noodle stared at him, resentfully, from the other side of the kitchen, her arms crossed.

"What _happened_, Murdoc?"

The bassist just grumbled, fumbling with his jaw anxiously.

"Russ is out there_ right_ now, looking for him. But I need to know _why_. He wouldn't just run away without a _reason_!"

Murdoc turned his head to her, growling with all the force he could muster. He didn't want to talk about this. He just wanted to go somewhere and sleep and drink until all of this went away. Because, he knew that… this was his fault.

"Don't look at me like that! You _know_ what you did! Tell me!" Noodle demanded, rising from the chair, fists clenched in frantic rage. Her eyes were full of panic.

Murdoc's shoulders softened, and he sighed heavily. Scratching his dirty jeans, he fidgeted with words. Finally, he managed to say something.

"I… um… I hit him. Really hard."

His eyes wondered over to the cooker, where the dent glinted viciously. Suddenly, Murdoc felt a stabbing pain in his spine, and a prickling in his nose, his body shivering with recall.

He looked away from the cooker, just as Russell returned hurriedly through the door, clutching 2D's mobile phone and a scrap of paper in one hand.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

2D sighed, softly, watching a couple of birds peck at the rotting metal of a goalpost. Why someone would abandon a perfectly good thing like that in the mire, he didn't know. But wondering about it took his mind away from waiting.

He looked down at his watch. The screen was cracked, but he could see that the station clock was indeed right. There were still 40 minutes to go.

The cold was blinding. 2D wished that he'd brought more than a hoodie as outwear – it barely did anything to stop the cold seeping into his flesh, soaking through bruises like ice water. Still, it could be worse. At least he'd had the common sense to bring food with him, even if it was only a Tupperware of yesterday's rice.

He opened the box – which was harder than splitting an atom – and scooped a bit of the frozen rice into his mouth. It tasted vaguely like water.

2D closed the box again, and put it away. His mind swam with thoughts of Murdoc, thoughts that refused to go away. Every little thing seemed to remind him of that man, and it really_ hurt_.

_Murdoc leans in close, his left hand resting on the wall of the barn. 2D doesn't know what to do, really, but he lifts his head expectantly, slightly, as if something could happen between their lips._

"No!"

2D smacked his hand against the bench, tears clogging his eyes. He didn't want to remember how perfect that moment had been. It wounded him too much to remember that Murdoc didn't care – that Murdoc didn't mean what he did. What _they_ did. Together, in that barn in Arizona, waiting for Russell and Noodle to finish on the carousel.

It hurt like hell.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Murdoc wished he hadn't hit 2D.

After Arizona, he'd been so… so _silent_. Murdoc had just assumed that he thought it was a mistake – that he _regretted _what they'd done. It was a shock, to both of them, admittedly; the bassist still couldn't believe that they'd had sex._ Together_. With _each other_. He could understand if D had hated it, had never wanted to speak of it again. He _could_. Sort of.

But he'd never imagined that stupid, clumsy, pretty little Stuart Pot… could actually _love _him. Let alone hold it all in until now! What had the singer been _thinking_? Murdoc was drunk, and the stupid kid decided_ that_ was the best time to try and kiss him?

The bassist hated his reaction. He could still remember the sound of his fist as it broke 2D's skin, knocking the singer down into the hard thunk of the cooker. Sighing, frustrated, Murdoc shifted slightly in his seat, the seatbelt scratching his neck. The road ahead was mostly empty – that taxi driver _had _said Meltfeld Station, right? That's what Russell had told him, anyway – that the guy with Stu's mobile phone dropped the singer off at the station almost 2 hours ago.

He couldn't really remember, not clearly, at least; he was too concerned about the area that 2D had chosen to board the train – it was _notorious_ for muggings and violent assaults. For a second, all Murdoc could do was panic about 2D's safety, but he quickly shelved that line of thought as the turning appeared. He swerved the car violently, praying that Russell and Noodle didn't find 2D as they canvassed the hospitals, and praying that he was able to forgive himself if they did.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

2D stared, wide eyed, into the face of the young man.

He wasn't as tall as the singer, but he had friends, and a mean left hook – skinny, big 2D hadn't stood a chance when they attacked him, shouting about wallets and money and freaks.

"We want yer money, alwigh?" The man spat at him, pressing him harder against the wall, "An' this time, there ain't gonna be any tryin' to run, righ'?"

2D stuttered a few sounds at him, unable to speak properly. He didn't _have_ any money. If he'd had money… well, he wouldn't've been in this situation.

The young man kneed him in the gut. The singer slid to the floor, clutching his stomach and groaning; he tried to speak, but he couldn't. The sounds of grunting floated over his dazed head, and then, suddenly, punches were flying at him and all around him, a barrage of pain and whimpering and fists.

In only a moment, it was over. 2D looked up from between his battered, guarding arms, and saw – through the blur of pain – a familiar face, one that he'd never though he'd see again.

Without even thinking, he reached up to Murdoc, drawing the bassist close and planting his lips firmly on the other's face. He didn't know why he did it; what surprised him more was that stiff, angry, ridged Murdoc kissed him right back, sheltering him from the beginnings of rain with his caress.

Maybe it wasn't going to be easy to sort this out. But suddenly, even though doubts still nagged at his teary mind...


End file.
